Every Sound on Earth
by thornfield
Summary: John Smith arrives in Jamestown in 1619 after 10 years in Grenada and more in the East as a soldier. The Powhatan tribe, decimated, regroups with powerful neighbors (Massawomeck & Chicamagua). He meets Pocahontas -daughter of the dead Powhatan chief- John


_Jamestown, Virginia 1619_

John Smith was very wary of his surroundings as he stepped shakily off of the small skiff that had brought him and nine others to the Jamestown colony; the skiff had been dropped overboard from the large ship, _The Dove_, at the mouth of the James River, and transported them through the river's wide but gentle waters to the colony's edge.

Smith had been, for the past ten years, a soldier for hire in Grenada. His pale skin was tanned, his blonde hair was bleached white in patches from the sun. It had a slight curl and wave and fell at his shoulders; he had been teased from his youth, called, "golden locks."

"Golden Locks" was now dispatched to Virginia, his term in Grenada up. He had enough money to possibly retire quietly from the service here, buy a farm somewhere. The English settlement was getting along since tobacco cultivation suddenly became profitable a few years before, in 1612. There was trouble darkening this settlement, though. Indians. They had always been hostile to the English interlopers, and moved camp constantly so that they could not be easily found. The main group here, Powhatan, had powerful allies in the Chicamauga and Massawomeck, as well as an entire string of allies up and down the coast, from New Spain to the far reaches up north. These groups all spoke the same language but had differing customs.

Smith was wary because he was distrustful, and a loner by nature, shy around female company and too headstrong to follow orders from employers or ships captains for too long. He hated new places once the anonymity wore off, but for the moment, he reveled in his anonymous, stateless, companion-less existence. He wandered, taking in sights, smells, sounds. He bought strawberries and ate them as he wandered the market, savoring the taste of something so sweet and cool after months at sea. He missed the tropical fruits that grew under the searing Grenada sun. He closed his eyes a moment, calling to mind the sound of surf and the hoarse caw of tropical birds.

He pulled himself out of his revelry as the ground suddenly thundered beneath him—an irritated horse was jerking a farm wagon roughly along the cobbled street, and the horse's owner was desperately trying to control it. John hastened up from the log where he sat, and hurried over. He had grown up around horses in Linconshire—back in England—and was an expert. He grabbed the horse by the bridle, and it whinnied and bucked wildly for a moment or two until he calmed it, clicking to it softly, and showing it that he meant no harm. It calmed, and instead of butting his hand out of the way, let him pet its dark, soft muzzle. It had been so long since he'd touched anything soft, and the horse's huge wet eyes called up memories of his happy childhood.

" 'Ey! What the 'ell? The driver of the wagon called. "You tamed my bloody 'orse just as I swear he was 'bout to take me for a ride with Satan!" The man swung down from the farm wagon. "Martin Townsend," he said, extending his hand, and adding with a sour expression, "I'm the bane of this demon 'orse. I'm a tobacco farmer."

"John Smith, from Lincolnshire via the Levant and Grenada. I'm here now because my mercenary term in Grenada's up; I should present my papers to the governor. Do you know where he may be?" Smith asked.

"Aye, that way," Townsend said, jerking his head back toward the wagon. "Lives upriver—up at Henrico—its less mosquito-filled in summers. I'll take ye there," he offered, "you look a mite exhausted."

"Governor's a big shot in this town," Townsend was telling him, as John drove the wagon—the "demon horse" was calmly trotting now. "He's got a big house with servants and he constantly plays host to the tobacco magnates, John Rolfe and Gabriel Archer. Captain Newport visits a lot too."

"Newport?" John said excitedly, "I've heard so much about him! Is it true he really quelled a raid by the Powhatan by burning their village to the ground in 1609?"

"Aye, 'tis true," Eighty percent of the village died, and the rest migrated north but came back resilient and with bigger numbers. They all live near the mouth of the James River in their little village—'course, Werowocomoco was never little to begin with, and it certainly is quite large now."

John was quiet, thinking of the horrors that must have been that day when the English set fire to the village. He had read reports that the English had ringed the village with flames, setting fire first to the trees, and then lobbed flaming catapults. Thatch roofs were incinerated in seconds, dry as they were that summer in 1609. The people tried to all congregate in the river, but the flames jumped natural fire barriers and got near the water—the smoke that the flames, near the shore, wafted over the water suffocated many and burning embers had rained down on them along with thick ash.

A pain tightened in his chest as he thought of this and as his mind called up smoky, hot memories of battle in far flung places. Townsend was still talking. "—And the old chief, Washunanahock, didn't make it out of the fire. His remnant straggled northward, starving and without possessions, but when they came back . . . damn . . . it was like the apocalypse. The new chief Tomocomo, Jack of the Feathers, is the old chief's brother. He is cruel and bloodthirsty, and the peace parley is still shaky. We could all be murdered in our sleep tonight."

"What do you say to that, Indian fighter? Does it stir your blood, eh?" Townsend clapped John on the shoulder. "We've all heard tell of your prowess with the sword and the rifle! Is that really why you're here? Are you to head up our fighters?"

Townsend's voice was too eager and excited for John to deal with. He was exhausted from the journey, but also, a small voice in his mind told him, weary of combat. Sure, he'd come with the condition that given enough pay and perks, he would head up the English against the Powhatan and their ilk, but part of him hoped it wouldn't come to that.

They arrived at the governor's home. It was stately, with three stories and a neatly trimmed hedge. It sat on acreage that rolled gently and was lush and green under the summer sun and the river lazed nearby. The sounds of nature filled the place and soothed John, as he took deep breaths of the clean, sweet air—less sticky and muggy than Grenada's.

Townsend tipped his hat to John and the manservant who'd appeared at the door. Townsend left after shaking John's hand, and John was led inside. The house was cool inside, with high ceilings and few windows. His eyes adjusted to the relative dimness, and as he walked along the wooden floor he reached out to steady himself—the long months at sea and the wagon ride had left him a little woozy. He should've walked here, like he'd intended, and shaken the sea out of his body. Instead, he'd ridden along the road, hearing tales of death.

He shook himself, blinked. They had stopped at a doorway and the servant was speaking to him. His name was Wiggins, and he was tall and skinny, sallow, and spoke with a slight lisp. He looked effeminate and gentle, with large, happy eyes and a ready smile. Wiggins was asking for John's hat and papers. He gave them over, and thanked the servant for showing him to the governor's study. Wiggins bobbed his head with a small smile and disappeared into the study, reappearing seconds later and hurrying down the hall.

John rapped his knuckles against the door. "Enter," the governor's voice boomed. Governor Ratcliffe was imposing. He had been rather portly years ago, when John first met him. He had lost a lot of his bulk when serving with John in Turkey in 1604, but remained large boned and heavily muscled.

"Smith, my boy!" his voice boomed. He rose, crossed the carpet, and embraced John. "Hello, old Rat," Smith said, teasing, using the old nickname the fighting company'd given Ratcliffe in training so many years ago. "How long has it been? Fifteen years? My God!" Smith exclaimed.

"Yes, yes. My boy, we were far too young to be fighting Eastern savages in those days—what, you were only sixteen but claimed you were older and I was a callow piggish man of twenty. Christ, those times." Ratcliffe poured Smith some wine. "It's Spanish. The best wine," he said, pushing the glass toward his old comrade. Smith sipped it gratefully; it was cold, tart but sweet.

"I don't regret leaving home and jumping ship," Smith said. "No one to tie you down, few rules—the open sky and the world waiting. "Twas perfect, those days." Smith swirled the wine in his glass, briefly seeing it turn to blood—warm, sticky blood. The smells of gunpowder, sweat—the cooling breeze of the sea—the scream of a sailor overboard—it all converged briefly in that swirl of liquid. John blinked, and was holding in his hands wine again, not blood. He drained the glass.

"You look well," Ratcliffe said, "if a little tired. Stay here for a few days 'till you get your bearings. I see you've offered to head up the fighters? What is it you plan to do in Jamestown?" he said, gesturing with John's official papers. They bore the seal of the Crown.

John sighed. "Not sure. Bloody hell," he said, running a calloused hand over his face. He sighed into his next words. "I don't know. Perhaps a better way for me is to work directly with the Powhatan. You _know_ I know their language and ways—I was here for the first expedition."

John's firsts trip to Virginia had been in 1607—it was a chapter John preferred to forget. He was only nineteen then. He and Ratcliffe had met and fought three years earlier in the Levant, but John's stay in Turkey had been brief—he'd caught some fever and was shipped out. Lolling in England, John had been bored and angry enough to sign up for the first Jamestown expedition.

So at nineteen, he had found himself Virginia, only to discover that there was no gold, the savages were fierce, and the settlement was an utter failure. Settlement efforts were quickly abandoned. He'd been shot—a Powhatan arrow had shattered his knee. He and Gabriel Archer were the walking wounded, the specters of Jamestown's failures when they arrived back in London in early 1608, with a handful of stragglers still left alive, but half-dead from starvation. Archer had been pierced with arrows through both hands, and John's knee was wrecked. It healed, but gave him trouble in cold weather.

In winter 1609 he'd been in cold, rainy London nursing that right knee, when he'd first gotten reports of the sensational and brutal retaliation plan—the fire—of Captain Newport's. That day had been a hubbub—the courier delivering _corantos_, short press-printed pamphlets of the news, to town. Twenty-one year old John had been in a dank tavern, drowning his physical pain with beer and the feel of the tavern girl's plump breasts under his hands.

He'd left the girl smoothing her skirts and looking annoyed, as he'd limped outside to see what all the commotion was about. Men were grabbing with greasy hands at the pamphlets, passing them 'round, talking excitedly. _If the English couldn't take the savages' land by force, then no savages would live upon it! _John had been both thrilled and repulsed—mostly repulsed—at the news.

Then he'd shipped out to Grenada, lost himself in the tropical sun, only to return to Jamestown ten years later.

Back in the present moment, Ratcliffe was considering what John had said. This was true enough. John had been stubborn, trying to parley with the Powhatan the whole time, ignoring orders to dig for gold and kill these people on sight. He'd picked up the language well enough, made negotiations, brought several men his own age back to the fort for talks. How John had done this was a mystery to Ratcliffe.

He shook his head. "How'd you do it, boy?"

John laughed. " It 'tweren't so hard—White and Straekey were there, for God's sake." These two obsessive ethnologists had been along to Virginia when John was barely considering running away from home, in the late 1500s.

"But after those two died of fever . . . " John trailed off. "I felt useless, stopped going to parley. Got myself shot."

"Well, there's always room for second chances. How's this: You get set up in town, and you can help with getting these people under control."

"Under control?" John frowned. An old feeling—a mix of fear and excitement—was building and shooting up his spine.

"They are wild savages, Smith. They kill and maim and plunder—this Tomocomo is hell-bent on revenge for his brother's death. They refuse to send their children to the school at Henrico or take them to church. They run around naked and painted. We could all die in our sleep tonight! Not a month ago, three boys were captured and killed. Local magistrates found their bodies impaled on spears in the middle of the road to come up here. Like it was a warning for me and the town council. I don't like it, Smith. It's up to you to keep it controlled." Ratcliffe's tone had gone hard.

"Wiggins!" he shouted. Silence. He shouted for the servant again, and then went down the hall, shouting and banging the wall at the far end of the corridor. He came back after several minutes, but they were still alone. A few minutes later feet came pattering down the corridor. When the door opened, though, the person in it was not Wiggins. It was a girl. John gaped.

She was tall, red-brown, barefooted, and wearing Powhatan clothing—a simple one-shouldered dress made of deer hide. She wore a brightly colored cape of some kind—John realized fast that it was a piece of trade cloth that she had cut and fashioned into a cape, decorating it with feathers and beads. The cape covered her shoulders and chest. Her hair was braided and she wore several earrings in each ear. One ankle was tattooed.

She looked young—couldn't be a day over one-and twenty. But who could tell? These people all looked the same—half-dressed, dirty, grabby and insistent. Stubborn. _Not unlike me_, John thought. Still, the thirty-one year old thought she was something to behold.

The girl came close to Ratcliffe, searching him—and John—with her eyes. They were large and dark brown, with thick lashes. _My God, her face is beautiful_, John thought. She was silent, but John was so stunned he couldn't possibly have time to think her silence odd or unsettling.

Ratcliffe had a deep baritone voice, and when he spoke to the girl John noticed that he spoke much more slowly. As he spoke he splayed his thick hands, fingers covered in rings.

"Where is Wiggins. I asked for Wiggins."

The girl watched him as he spoke, and John slowly realized she was watching his lips, mostly.

She opened her mouth a little, made a little sigh, and shook her head. Her earrings rattled. She shrugged and splayed her fingers in a dainty gesture of "I don't know."

John's stomach was all aquiver at the sight of this exotic, silent girl. _So beautiful_, he kept thinking.

Ratcliffe seemed exasperated. "Where is he?" he said again. The girl's eyes widened. "Does he not know to come when I call?! At least _you_ do, dumb beast that you are—_here_" he said, gathering John's papers and handing them to the girl. She held them as Ratcliffe pointed a meaty finger at John.

"_Those _papers," he said slowly, pointing back to them—"belong to _this_ man"—pointing at John again. "Wiggins was to take them to be filed with the magistrate. Near the market."

Ratcliffe paused. "Do you understand me?" he asked.

The girl's attention was on John now. She stared openly, appraising him. She reminded John of a doe—an intelligent, beautiful, silent creature.

"Girl!" Ratcliffe yelled, snapping his fingers in front of her face. She jerked back and looked at the governor again. She indicated yes wordlessly.

"Magistrate," Ratcliffe said, making a little sign with one hand. Her free hand fluttered gracefully.

"Get gone, then," Ratcliffe said, his voice softening a little. The girl padded silently out of the room. As she brushed by John she peeked at him from under dark lashes, and the scent of sweet grass and sage rose up as she trailed to the door.

In the silence, John's heart was hammering and his throat was dry. "Who was that?" he asked stupidly. His mind teemed with more questions but he couldn't ask them.

Ratcliffe gave a groan with his sigh, running his fingers over his broad face.

"The daughter of the deceased Powhatan chief Washunanahock. Tomocomo's niece, Pocahontas. She's deaf and can't speak. She's been around English people so long she lip-reads the language as well as her own. You see, you know the Spanish came to Virginia before we did. They didn't stay long, moving quickly on to Florida. They brought livestock—pigs that ran wild. The people and the animals spread diseases.

The girl Pocahontas is one-and-twenty now, but she was just a wee infant, when an outbreak of the Spanish fever devastated the Powhatan. The fever robbed her of her hearing, and so she never learned to speak. She was about dead, but obviously recovered. She's damaged, though—the Powhatan, Massawomeck and Chicamagua regard deafness as a curse, so no one from there wants to marry her. She's sort of shuttled from hand to hand, shunned by the young men of marriageable age. She's tolerated, for her good nature and her way with animals. But not much beyond toleration. 'Course, now that her people the Powhatan have been so decimated, and re-banded with the Massawomeck and Chicamagua, the girl is somewhat adrift. No one really wants her around too long. "

John let all of this sink into his brain. When he had been an arrogant young man in this place in 1607, so many years ago, she had been a nine-year-old, locked in silence. "So what is she doing in your home?" he asked, drinking another glass of wine and remembering the smell of sweet grass and sage.

"Well, you know she can't be educated at the Henrico school, because of her lack of speech" Ratcliffe said darkly. "They don't want her because they can't _do_ anything with her—can't turn her into a model citizen. 'Course, the bloody _lot_ of those savages will never be! Education is wasted on them. At any rate, Wiggins felt so sorry for her he _begged_ me to take her on as a servant."

"So have you?"

"Do you _think _I want her _around_?In _my home_? The little chit will probably steal from me or she could poison me! Her people are not our friends, though they may be shaky allies. I sometimes let her come by, well—she sneaks around my grounds enough anyway. They say charity is a virtue. As long as I can put her to work, I suppose, eh? So I let her clean for me and only cook with Wiggins there—she might poison me, you know. Her dirty feet are on my carpets—" he scowled and trailed off.

"Sounds like you don't much like her," John said darkly. "Do you pay her?"

Ratcliffe laughed uproariously. "She's not a _real_, salaried servant like Wiggins. My God, Smith—did the tropical sun do you over one? Indians are lower than us. They don't deserve our money."

"I honestly don't think Pocahontas will poison you. For God's sake, man. From what you've told me, you're one of the few people who even speaks to her. That has to count for something."

"Well, never mind. Perhaps I am too paranoid. Any rate, any rate—you'll stay the night. I'll show you to your room, since no one even remotely competent is around."

John slept all afternoon. When he woke, he heard the kitchen, which was below his room, bustling and smelled something delicious. He stretched, and walked into the small adjoining water closet to refresh himself. When he was sufficiently clean, he came out into the bedroom again, searching the wardrobe for clean clothes. It was a stately room with a large four-post bed and elegant furnishings. John dressed and combed through his damp hair, then settled into a plush chair by the window with a book. The slowly setting sun warmed his back as he read.

Perhaps two hours later, he was so engrossed in the book he did not hear the girl come in. He only looked up when he had that peculiar feeling of being watched.

"Oh!" he said. Pocahontas watched him—watched his lips, he knew. "You startled me. I did not see you come in, or hear you do so," he said slowly. Pocahontas gave a little shrug and pointed to the door.

"Yes, it was open. Perhaps I would have heard you, were it shut and you opened it," he replied.

He made to put down his book, but instead walked over to her, with the book still closed around his hand.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

Pocahontas looked at him as he talked. She stopped and thought a moment. She pointed to the bed, then went over and gave the sheets a little tug. Then she walked back over to him and gave his sleeve a little tug. Finally, spying what she needed, she hurried over to gather his dirty laundry. She held it out, as if to indicate that was what she was looking for.

"My clothes? The bedclothes? You need to do the washing," he said. She nodded. She put the clothes on the floor and started to take apart the bed.

"Here, let me help you," John said, starting to remove blankets. She quickly shook her head, indicating that it was not his task to do. She swept her hand in a delicate arc around the room, indicating the fancy furnishings, and then tugged on his clothes again. She pushed the book into his hands again.

"I see. You think I am too fine a man to do this work?"

She gave her nose a little wrinkle. Indicated yes. Pointed to herself, and held up the sheet she was bunching in her hands. _My task_, she was saying.

"Well, I'll help you anyway, Pocahontas."

John saw her eyes go wide as she read her name on his lips. She pointed to herself, then at him and raised her hands in a _why_? or _how_? Gesture.

"Ratcliffe told me your name," he said slowly, "he told me about you, how you cannot hear and cannot speak," John said, making easy motions near his ear and lips. "I know who you are, you're the chief's daughter," he said, smiling at her.

She smiled sadly, and then touched her lips and ear. She seemed to be saying, _so what I am his daughter, look at what is wrong_. Her eyes were narrowed and her face was pained. When she looked at him again, she did it sidelong, a little embarrassed that he knew her condition.

John realized with a pang of shock that since she could read lips, she knew that Ratcliffe called her a 'dumb beast' earlier. She _did_ look hurt now, he realized.

He reached over and gently placed a hand on her arm, taking the moment to admire a tattoo that wrapped round her wrist. "Pocahontas," he said, when he had her attention. "When Ratcliffe called you a dumb beast earlier . . . well. I do not think you are," he said firmly, "you are Washunanahock's daughter." Pocahontas had watched his words, and now she looked gratefully into his eyes. She pressed his hand warmly, communicating what she could not say. _Thank you_. Her eyes brimmed and she gave a tight smile. Then she gently gripped his arm with her hand, and patted it. She put down the pile of bedclothes and began to gesture.

John couldn't follow, of course, so at one point in her fingers' elegant flight he gently caught them, stilling her. "I do not understand your hand talk," he said slowly, shaking his head and smiling. She looked down, sighing. John was struck that the rush of air was all that could come from her mouth—_what a bizarre existence, that of the deaf-mute_.

She looked up again, pointed to herself. Waited.

"Pocahontas?" John questioned. She pressed his hands, smiled. Then she pointed to him. She tried to form a silent word with her useless voice, but since she could not hear sounds—only lip read them—her attempt was clumsy, only air. Irritated, she placed a hand on his chest, frowning.

John suddenly understood.

"Ah!" he said, pressing her hands excitedly. "You wish to know my name." She read his words, smiled, and moved childishly up on her toes for a second in her excitement at being understood.

John pointed to himself. "My name is John. John Smith."

She attempted to form his name in silence, but it was only air again, little exhalations with the trace of a guttural sound behind them. As a baby when she'd gone deaf,very few sounds were ever in her existence, John realized. This thought made John very sad. He sighed deeply, and he was holding her hand to his chest. _She must be dying to hear any sound at all_, he thought.

He touched her ear and her lips. "Can you sense sounds at all?" he asked slowly.

Pocahontas pushed one of his shiny black boots with her bare toes, and then tapped the ground with her heel. "You can sense vibrations? From heavy footsteps, loud noises?" She nodded 'yes,' and next bit her lip, considering how to best tell him something else.

She touched his lips—a feathery touch that sent shivers down his spine and made him want to sigh and close his eyes. She pressed more firmly on them, and then made some gesture with her other hand. He realized she wanted him to speak to her.

As John started speaking, she placed her fingers gently at his throat.

"What are you trying to tell me?" he asked gently. Pocahontas kept her fingers at his throat and then pressed an ear to his chest. For a few seconds it was just the two of them silent, breathing. Near his heart, her ear could barely hear the thud. When he spoke next, she felt a few vibrations in his chest and throat. "You can hear me this way?" he asked gently. "You sense the vibrations of my voice." She pulled away, and smiled. They were both smiling.

"Good," he said softly, brushing some hair that had come loose from her braid behind her ear.

The presence of Wiggins broke their gaze. The servant tapped on the door. When John looked over at him, Pocahontas's eyes quickly followed. She broke into a smile. She brought Wiggins over to John and gestured. John watched, rapt, as Wiggins and the Powhatan girl communicated with graceful hand movements and Wiggins' soft words. Wiggins spoke in Algonquian and English. When she was happy or excited, John realized, she would try to speak, with those little exhalations and tiny sounds.

Wiggins' eyes were shining as he told John, "Pocahontas tells me that you two have met and you know one another's names. She says you are kind to her and you realize that she can feel some vibrations. She was quite young with the fever, you know. The English taught her to read a little, but she still cannot write. She understands what their lips say if they speak slowly because she has been around English people a long time. It makes her sad—" he stopped talking and watched her hands—"but she is happy to meet you today."

The shock of her condition—how harrowing to be trapped in fuzzy silence and shunned by so many—hit him again and he felt a deep burn of some emotion—what? Anger? Pity? He didn't know. "Tell her she is welcome as my friend. I can see her intelligence."

The manservant conveyed this to the girl, who looked very happy, leaning forward on her toes again, touching John's arm.

"Can you ask her something for me?" he said to the servant. "What does her name mean?"

Four hands fluttered and one mouth moved.

"Fox," said Wiggins. He laughed good naturedly as Pocahontas tried to make the word, and John could tell that these two had a long association.

"Tell the little fox that my name means blessed, or that God is generous." Wiggins conveyed this with lips more than hands, unable to find the gestures. Pocahontas looked approvingly at John and patted Wiggins' arm. Wiggins was protective of her, John could tell, standing close and watching her face all the time.

"Well come now, fox. The guests will be arriving and we must serve dinner soon. Good evening, sir," Wiggins gave a little bow to John and left. Pocahontas gathered up the laundry and left, too. John was alone again, and suddenly felt achingly empty. He walked to the window and pressed his ear to it, trying to imagine what it would be like if his only way in the world was to hear muffled sounds and no sounds—through the window he could clearly hear birds chirping and cawing loudly, and faintly hear men talking on the lawn far below. He would never fully appreciate the silence Pocahontas existed in, he realized.

The dinner table was set for four—the governor; John Smith; and the two tobacco magnates, John Rolfe and Gabriel Archer. John was anxious to see Archer again—he had been nineteen when he and Archer had both been shot. The candlelight gleamed and glittered off of the chandelier, and the shiny mahogany table was nicely set.

John heard the commotion—the barking of dogs, the thump of boots. "Down Azazel! Baal! Leave off!" A tall, red-haired, freckled man in fine clothing strode through the entrance hall, his dogs following obediently. He wore a green doublet over a linen shirt and his tailored trousers were rich tweed. He carried a plumed hat, which he tossed to Wiggins without a word. A signet ring was on his left hand. He extended his right to Smith, who shook it firmly.

"You must be John Smith. I am John Rolfe, of Varina Farms—you know, the 200-acre tobacco plantation?"

"Pleased to meet you," Smith said, "I've only just arrived in the colony via Grenada. I was actually only nineteen when in Virginia for the first ill-fated venture. Archer may've told you my right knee got somewhat wrecked by a Powhatan arrow."

"Ah, yes, Archer. He of the pierced hands! He did tell me all about you—your legendary fighting skills, and what not!" Rolfe said this in a jocular tone that implied he was amused but also thought it terribly droll. "Tell me, lad, did you kill any Powhatan, Massawomeck, or Chicamagua back in 1607? God knows they are all nuisance now—only good for locking in the town jail or putting to work with the dark captives in my tobacco fields! Lord knows Reds _can't_ be educated and turned useful. I say we ship 'em off or kill 'em all-"

John Smith was privately appalled at the other man. Archer breezed in. "Smith!" he boomed. The younger man eagerly went into his embrace, happy to be free of this dizzyingly rich, appalling stranger.

Archer and Smith spent time drinking brandy and catching up on old times, old tales, with Rolfe and the governor in the sitting room. Then it was time for dinner, and business talk.

"Is the brute still working for you, Ratcliffe?" Rolfe asked, as cheerily as he would have asked about anything else—a pet, the weather, the crops. John Smith felt icy fingers reach down his back and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. _What did he call her_?

"She can't speak or hear but she's efficient," was all Ratcliffe said.

"So that bitch _can't_ learn any new tricks," Rolfe mused, "what a pity, a pretty girl with no voice and a blank look on her face all the time. The way she stares at you is rather unsettling. Remember that time in 1612?"

Archer spoke next. "She was fourteen, Smith. The local schoolmaster—Rolfe's brother James—had his Native pupils read from their primers the story of Adam naming all the beasts and birds. Pocahontas's schoolmates mocked her as the schoolmaster tried to make her read aloud, though he knew she couldn't. All that happened were some guttural sounds, so he made her take the part of the beasts."

"_This is appalling_," Smith said, his voice hard edged. "She is in this house."

"Well she can't _hear_ us," Rolfe said merrily.

"I do not care. I will not tolerate this kind of talk. It is not civil."

"Who are _you_ to speak of civility?" the other three men cried almost all at once.

"You've shot and hacked your way through half the uncivilized world. And from what I can recall, at least at one time, you were more than happy to do it, to serve your rulers and their cause," said Ratcliffe.

Smith was angry. He tried to control his voice and temper. "That was a long time ago, Ratcliffe. The time spent most recently in Grenada was rather—"he paused, trying to find the words as well as beat back the memories—"unsettling to my disposition," he finished.

His stomach was in a painful knot as the servants silently brought the meal. It had taken this beautiful girl to shatter what was left of his illusions. Wiggins served the governor first and then went around to Rolfe. Pocahontas served Archer his plate. "Hello, _pet_," Archer said. She met his eyes only briefly out of the barest show of politeness. He held out a wineglass, not even asking her to refill it. Wiggins and the girl shared a look as Rolfe was served.

Pocahontas turned to leave, when Rolfe grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her toward him. She narrowly avoided spilling the wine. Wiggins was as alert as a cat, uncomfortable. So was Smith. Wiggins rescued the wine bottle and finished pouring the glasses.

"Well, now. The beautiful animal," Rolfe said slowly enough that he knew she understood. John Smith could hardly breathe for anger as he watched her stiffen and take on a hurt expression—_just how often is she insulted and debased in this house_? he wondered. There was also something else she was trying to hold back—John realized she was trying to contain fear. Rolfe had grabbed both of her wrists and his grip was tight.

"Just where do you think you are going?" Rolfe asked her, his voice low. She stared, mute and helpless. Smith cleared his throat loudly, but no one helped. When she tried to twist out of Rolfe's grasp, he wrenched his hands as tight as a vise. A guttural sound escaped her lips, and he twisted and squeezed harder. A gasp of air and another sound. She pulled back trying to free herself, and it was like a sick game. She kicked at him, and Rolfe rose from his chair enraged. He spat in her face. Wiggins rushed forward.

"Unhand her, Rolfe," he said, his happy eyes clouded over with anger.

"What's she to you, buggery-lover?" Rolfe said disdainfully, as he twisted one of her wrists frightfully hard. Archer laughed.

"Enough! You let go of her!" Smith stormed over and roughly pulled them apart. He turned to Wiggins, who glared at the guest.

"_Wiggins! Not one word!_" thundered Ratcliffe. Pocahontas flinched at the sight of the man yelling and pounding his fists on the table. She held her hands to her chest.

_"I will have you fired! Turned out penniless! And as for you_—" he pointed at Pocahontas_—"you. You dumb beast_. _You as much as spill one drop of wine or be churlish to Mr. Rolfe, I will have you beaten in the stables."_

There was silence. Wiggins didn't dare touch her or even look at her, but led her quickly from the room. As he closed the kitchen door behind them, he seethed with rage. Pocahontas began to cry. Wiggins settled her on the floor against his chest as she cried.

John was the only one who didn't merrily tuck in to his dinner. He wondered which dishes she had made—the salad of wild greens, or the perfectly seared meat? The corn bread? The cold, summery soup?—he ate out of politeness, but it all tasted like ash to him.

He let the conversation—tobacco, unusually cool weather, the African workers, the school, the new English arrivals, London society—drift over and around him. Finally he spoke.

"Why did you hurt her?" he bluntly asked Rolfe.

"Pain can make even the stupidest canary sing," Rolfe replied.

Smith stood abruptly, rattling wine glasses. He left the dining room. He went by way of the hall, to make them think he was heading up the stairs. Instead, he went around a good ways to the kitchen's other door. He pushed it open quietly.

Wiggins heard him. Gestured for him to come sit on the floor. John settled near Pocahontas, whom Wiggins was still holding. She was no longer crying, but sitting very still. John touched her shoulder and she turned to him. She managed a wan smile.

"I saw what you were trying to do"—John directed his words to Wiggins but let Pocahontas read them too—"you were trying to eliminate the need for her to go to Rolfe at all, by serving him. He does this often?"

Wiggins and Pocahontas gave simultaneous nods. "He always does something to frighten her. Last time, he let his dogs back her into a corner. Once, he tripped her so that she spilled a plate, and Ratcliffe hauled her up in front of all the guests and slapped her. When he's here I make sure he's never alone with her. He's such a freak. His wife left him and went back to England, and there are all kinds of rumors that he's a sadist."

"_Christ_," John muttered, passing a hand over his face.

"I must go," Wiggins murmured. He kissed the top of the girl's head and left.

John put a hand on her cheek and felt her tears. He gave her a handkerchief and she cleaned up her face. "Let me see your hands," John said. She let the handkerchief drop, and held out her hands. There were marks already arisen around her tanned wrists—dark purplish and greyish-black. Evil strength in those hands of his. John sighed with a groan of disgust and anger so deep, he was sure she felt it. He looked up at her as she mouthed something silently. She shook her head to indicate "no" and then patted his cheek.

"I care not if it has nothing to do with me. Rolfe hurt you!" He sat looking at her marred wrists. He touched the left one, the one Rolfe had twisted sickeningly around. Gingerly, he palpated it, moved her hand at the joint.

"It looks alright, just a sprain I suppose," he told her slowly. She lowered her head for a moment, sighing. John thought back suddenly to his childhood. Whenever he or his brothers was hurt—sunburned, sprained, scraped, scalded, bitten, stung, or even beaten bloody by schoolhouse fights—their mother would tend the problem and ask playfully, "shall I now kiss it to make it better?" Once, his brother Peter had sprained an ankle. His mother had gently rubbed it, soothing the angry tendons and ligaments.

John began massaging Pocahontas's hand and wrist, taking out tension and pain. He then found some gauze and dipped it in cold water and a soothing brew of lavender water he found on a little shelf. He worked over her wrist again and then wrapped it up. "Better?" he asked her after a while. She nodded yes. He could see she was frustrated.

"Do you wish to tell me something?"

She frowned, thinking. She knew her gestures were useless, he didn't know how to make hands sing. He knew she could not write English. How could she let him know, then, that his was the only gentle touch since Wiggins'? That his touch in particular was uncoiling something dangerous within her? The feelings of love and security were not to be hers, as no one wanted her for a wife. How could she tell him that he was making her aware that she was human, and not an animal? That she deserved everything everyone else had?

She could not indicate it, so she simply snuggled against him. He went stiff for a moment but then wrapped his arms around her. She sat in his arms, wrapped in frustrated silence. He held her to him with thoughts in turmoil, intoxicated by the scent of sweet grass and sage and the soothing scent of lavender.

After a bit he spoke, and she heard the rumble of words faintly in his chest. She strained fruitlessly toward this other world of sound. So she watched him say, "I won't let him hurt you again. I've learned enough to know that what the English do here is wrong."

The words felt strange as he heard them—_was it really him speaking? Were her people not like all the others, greedy and ignorant and dirty? But wait_, he told himself. _You know she changed everything today, has shattered your last bits of illusion. They were hanging by a thread anyway. You just needed to cut them. You yourself had nearly severed them all in Grenada. It's all written down, because you really believe it._

Her frown, her pointing at him, grabbing a piece of his light hair—and her hands in a "what?" gesture—made him see her question.

"I know, I know. Pocahontas, I may be an Englishman, but that does not mean I have to approve of what is happening here. To you, or to your kinsmen."

It was like a small earthquake had set off between them. Their foundations were irretrievably shaken, but they could hang on to one another.

"We'd best get you on your feet," he finally said, helping her up. She moved her hands, asking him a question. She made little jabbing motions with one hand into the upturned palm of another, and then brought it to her mouth.

"I did eat the food, but I was very upset." They were surrounded by the extra food. John found a china plate, and filled it. He motioned for Pocahontas to come sit and eat. She picked up the silverware and began to eat, obviously hungry. To occupy himself while she ate dinner, he took up a small block of wood from the shelf and pulled a jackknife out of his boot. He began to carve the block.

The motion of his hands allowed his thoughts to move in a roil. _She ate like a civilized person, with fork and knife and napkin, only she got no points for the genteel art of conversation. She was beautiful, yet wild. Belonged to a culture but was shunned by two—one which thought she was cursed. Human, but with a handicap. Well—did not his countrymen, and did not the whole of Europe, yea, think that those in the New World and the East and Africa were just that—human, but somehow broken and inferior? She is not cursed,_ he convinced himself._ The curse is a foolish unscientific belief. If her own people shun her, then they are savages, indeed, just as Rolfe is. And so many people I know are. And you can be damned sure I once was. We all are._

After some minutes he no longer heard the scrape of silverware on china. He stole a glance at her. Her plate was clean, and she was watching him intently as he shaved off little woodshavings. "It's called whittling," he explained. As she lifted her glass of water to her lips with her good hand, he felt himself becoming angered at Rolfe all over again.

Perhaps an hour, maybe slightly more had passed. "They are surely looking for me," he told her. He pressed a kiss to her hair, as Wiggins had done, and left.

"Where the hell have you been?" said Ratcliffe, brandishing papers and a cigar.

Wiggins shot John a warning glance. But his old heedlessness kicked in, and he said angrily, "I was making sure that servant of yours whom you despise does not have a broken wrist. And then I gave her something to eat. On your good china." Smith saw Wiggins smile slightly.

Ratcliffe just looked annoyed. "Be advised, Smith, that your coming to this colony was in no basis decided by your charity. We need a capable, tough leader with your sort of skills to keep these savages in line. Can you do this job or not? Will you or will you not?" All the eyes in the room were on him.


End file.
